“I tried to defend the Knights, for their boy’s sake. He was barely sixteen…” Her expression hardens again, back to the Governess I know. “But the Holler didn’t handle the fire well. Tensions grew, sides formed. Magic versus the church. The beginnings of what you see now. Oris Webb’s father was the pastor then, and he was a nasty fellow, always blaming magic and looking for enemies.”
No wonder Oris Webb has been strategically harboring his vendetta against magic. It’s his family legacy.
“I’m guessing it didn’t take much for Gertha Fudge to exile you from the Holler’s good favor. And the church,” I say. She’d already lost her husband to the Widow Witch at that point.
Another grim nod. “Tolerance for magic got better under Mayor Summer, but the damage was done. I tried to live quietly, take up as little space as possible. I stomached ten years of that nonsense. Then my dear friend Ambrosia Frost passed.”
Dear friend?My grandmother? Even I sometimes forget how small Foxe Holler is. Momaw Frost probably baked the Governess plenty of cures over the years. Shoot, Ms. Zeen likely knew my grandmother longer than I did.
“Her death… I decided I wasn’t going to waste the rest of my life shrinking myself to fit into a place that made no room for me. Mr. Knight was the only other person who’d lived through that fire, and I knew he was alone, up in this empty house. So I thought, if we both had to suffer in silence, we could do it together. He never blamed me, didn’t care about my history with the church or the library. He gave me a room and a job and never asked me to leave.”
My mouth is definitely open. Attractive, I’m sure. I somehow have more questions than I did before. If Ms. Zeen knew my Momaw, then surely the Knight family made it down to the Apothakery while my mother was the Farewitch. Or did they keep to themselves even then?
One mystery meat at a time, my mom says. I need to be focused on tomorrow, not twenty-five years ago.
“Can you tell me anything more about the Widow Witch?”
“Ask Beulah. She’s older than Gertha, and Fudge won’t give you a straight answer, anyway.”
“So I’ve learned.” I make a mental note to visit Ms. Buchanan before we leave if I can. “WhyisFudge so pissy all the time?”
I know why she hates magic—the Widow Witch took her husband. And I know why she dislikes Ms. Zeen. But none of this explains why she hates a man who hasn’t stepped foot in town in two decades.
Ms. Zeen pulls me from my thoughts. “Sometimes, dear, when folks think old women are grouchy, we’re just weary. We’ve been tired for years. No one is perfect. As there is a cost to magic, there is a cost to caring for someone. You just need to find the good folks who are worth the cost and hold on to them.” Her expression shifts. “Be cautious tomorrow, Ms. Frost. Some folks despise magic because they have none. But some resent it whether they have their own or not, simply becauseothershave it, too.”
“So which one is the Widow Witch?”
“It doesn’t matter which your enemy is, dear. It just matters which one you are.”
Chapter Thirty-One
FRIDAY, JUNE 17
4 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Don’t let expensive taste become the enemy of good flavor.
You’ve known where she lives this whole time? And we’re just going todrive up to her house?”
“Not quite. Electricity, batteries, anything mechanical won’t work where she is. This land yacht would never make it.”
“Now wait just a molasses minute here—”
The Warlock pokes his head out of the passenger window. “Pull over here.”
Pull overis a courtesy. We haven’t been on an actual road in hours. Even the gravel and dirt paths gave out miles ago.
I park the Dodge in a slightly less overgrown clearing. We hop out into still-as-death humidity, the truck’s settling engine the only sound. Checking the sneaky tall grass and cattails around us, I’m grateful I swapped my clogs for these boots, but summertime is the worst season to take a hike in the South. Mosquitoes. Ticks. Chigger bites like chickenpox.Snakes. The wild and unkempt vegetation hides exactly what a person should be wary of.
Shoulder to shoulder, we stare into the depths of the woods past the tree line. The greenery is so thick, the morning sun won’t befollowing us in. “I suppose I have an abysmal chance of convincing you to stay here while I try to negotiate with the Widow Witch to help your mother?” he asks.
I half turn to him, real slow, and raise a brow.
“Right. Forget I asked.”
